


you give me no choice (but to stay)

by dashwood



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: (I lied; Martín does swear in front of the children), 99 percent fluff and 1 percent mitochondria angst, Alternate Universe, And oh look Cincinatti is there too, Andrés is an okay-ish guardian, Bi awakening, Canon Divergence - Andrés knows how to drive a car, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Paula gets a voice (and rights), Single Dad Dating Simulator, Single Parents, Slow Burn, Swearing (not in front of the children though), Unreliable Narrator, and it shows, the author doesn't understand how children work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:53:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28650837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashwood/pseuds/dashwood
Summary: Andrés hates children. They are loud and messy, and somehow their hands are always sticky. But when his brother lands himself in jail and Andrés has to take in his niece, he has to set his prejudices aside. Which would be easier said than done if it weren’t for the father of one of Paula’s classmates. It’s hate at first sight – until it isn’t.Or: Single Parents AU. Because we deserve a little bit of fluff in our lives.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Professor | Sergio Marquina, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 39
Kudos: 98





	you give me no choice (but to stay)

**Author's Note:**

> I first pitched this story to Shotgun and Boom in August (enemies to friends to lovers single parents, anyone?), and it sort of grew from there.
> 
> [Shotgun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shotgun_Cake/works), dearest. Words cannot express my gratitude and admiration. You are a wonderful beta reader slash wine aunt, and I couldn’t wish for a more supportive friend. Thank you for letting me steal from you.
> 
> Edit: Sometimes, the stars align and someone makes me the most gorgeous of [fanarts](https://twitter.com/boom_slap/status/1359545767413895171). Thank you, [boom_slap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_slap/works). I adore it.

"If you want to learn to love better, you should start with a friend who you hate."  
Paula (age 10)

When Andrés was a child, he wanted to be a thief.

While the other children played house, Andrés played cops and robbers. He fashioned sabers out of twigs and branches, and bullied the other boys into re-enacting a bank robbery. The girls, he argued, could play the frightened hostages.

Oh, how he'd relished in the thrill of it all. The chase, the excitement, the flutter of nerves.

But to misquote the great J.M. Barrie: All children must grow up. And so Andrés had, with a heavy heart, abandoned his criminal aspirations and pursued a lawful career.

He had never regretted it.

Until now.

As Andrés stood outside the grounds of Camp Goodtime, frozen and tired and sore, and listened to Berrote sob his heart out about how they had failed their children, Andrés thought that his brother may have been onto something when he decided to rob the _Fábrica Nacional de Moneda y Timbre_.

––

Well. This was underwhelming, Andrés thought as he eyed Paula over the rim of his Darjeeling.

Didn’t poor unfortunate orphans come in wicker baskets? Swaddled in linen, with grime smudged over their baby-fatted cheeks, and a letter proclaiming the tragic circumstances of their parents’ demise?

Surely, they weren’t supposed to be dropped off by stern-looking, frigid cows who worked for child services and looked at you with a remarkable blend of prejudice and snootiness while they told you what a pity it was that your brother had turned out to be a megalomaniac bank robber. As if the whole thing had somehow been _Andrés’s_ fault.

He hadn’t spoken to his brother in years. Last he heard, Sergio had run off with a woman from the _policía_ – an _inspectora_. They had moved to Palawan. When Andrés had received the postcard (a dime a dozen view of the ocean, overlaid with cheery letters proclaiming ‘Wish you were here’), he had simply thought ‘Good for Sergio’, and moved on.

But it appeared that his celibate, socially awkward brother had done more than sip virgin piña coladas and enjoy the sunset – at least if the little one currently sat at his dining table was anything to go by.

Paula’s legs were too short to reach the ground and so her feet dangled in the air. She hadn’t said a single word since the woman from child services had left, a doll lying abandoned on a playground. Unwanted, forlorn.

She looked so small and vulnerable, and Andrés had to admit that for a moment he felt a twinge inside his chest. He wasn’t sure if it was guilt or outrage on her behalf. But oh, to be jolted out of her life, uprooted like a seedling because of something her parents had done…

It wasn’t fair.

It prompted something in him. A protective instinct he hadn’t thought himself capable of.

He quashed it immediately, of course.

Just because Paula looked positively pitiable in her mousy dress and sweater, her hair wrangled into clumsy braids, didn’t mean that he had to feel responsible for her. He hadn’t _asked_ for her to be dropped off on his doorstep.

The overworked employee hadn’t even bothered to stick around for long enough to check if Andrés was any good at this. What if he hadn’t been?

What if he wasn’t?

Sighing, Andrés brought his tea up to his mouth. Paula mirrored him by taking a sip of her cocoa.

"How old are you?"

"Nine."

Andrés tutted in disapproval.

"Hasn’t my brother taught you to speak in complete sentences?"

Paula’s bottom lip began to wobble.

Oh no.

It seemed that he had stepped into dangerous territory. He needed a distraction.

"Here," he said quickly, pushing the plate of macarons toward her. "Have another one."

Hesitantly, she helped herself to another. Her lips were blessedly unwobbly as she wolfed it down.

And still...

Andrés frowned at the hoard of crumbs she let loose all over his oak wood table, like a savage. His fingers twitched with the urge to snatch the dessert out of her hands lest she wreak even more havoc. Wasn’t she housetrained?

A couple of crumbs defected from the group, jumping off the table and burrowing into the carpet. Most likely to nest there, and have lots of little crumb children. Soon enough, the vermin would follow. Cockroaches and silverfish and flies, and then it wouldn’t be long until he’d find the first rat rummaging through his kitchen.

He couldn’t do this.

This clearly wasn’t working.

"Grab your coat. We’re going out."

––

Prison wasn’t so bad. At least the visiting rooms weren’t.

The walls were painted a dreary gray, and the neon bulbs dangling above their heads added a clinical coldness. It might explain why the potted plants in the corner looked a bit droopy, as though they had given up.

But aside from that, the place seemed… bearable. Tolerable, certainly.

He picked up his glass of prison-provided water. And grimaced when he took a sip. He’d changed his mind: this place was hell.

Wrangling his features into a mask of pleasantness, Andrés dragged his gaze back to his brother.

"Sergio. You look... decent," Andrés said, and he meant it. Sergio’s face was pale, which was hardly a surprise given the lack of sunlight and fresh air, and the clothes he was wearing – a red overall and chunky boots – were as unfashionable as the garb he usually favored.

Sergio forewent the small talk.

"How is she?"

Andrés glanced at Paula.

She was sitting a few seats away, talking to her mother in hushed tones. Her little hands were trembling around the phone, but she calmed, just slightly, when Raquel pressed her palm against the glass partition between them, that invisible wall.

"Don’t worry," Andrés said, turning back to Sergio and offering him a bright smile. "I’ll take good care of her. But just out of curiosity, how much longer until you get out of here? Two months? Three?"

"Ten years."

Andrés choked.

"Ten years?!" He repeated, incredulous. Sergio had to be joking. "You expect me to look after your spawn for _ten years_?"

"My _spawn-_ " Sergio sputtered. "She is my _daughter_ , Andrés. _Your_ _niece_."

"You know I hate children. All that snot and drool – they disgust me." Andrés barely contained a shudder. "Doesn’t your wife know anyone who can take care of her?"

Sergio’s expression darkened, as though he, too, wished their circumstances were different. It seemed that Andrés truly was his last hope.

Wonderful.

"Raquel’s mother is sick. She can’t- We had hoped that-" Sergio cut himself off, biting the inside of his cheek. When he continued, his tone was urgent. _Imploring_. "Please, Andrés. I know you have only ever cared about yourself, but she deserves a good life. She deserves… better."

Andrés huffed out an unamused laugh.

 _"You_ are accusing _me_ of being selfish? Please remind me, _hermanito_ : Which one of us took his Bonnie and Clyde roleplay a little too far, hmm?"

Sergio shook his head, and when he looked back up at Andrés, his eyes were shining with pity. As if Andrés had been the one to disappoint _him_.

"I should have known that you wouldn’t understand."

Andrés tensed. He turned bitter, _cold_ , before he composed himself. Slowly, he lowered the phone back onto its hook, cutting Sergio’s excuses off mid-'You know I am righ—'.

But Andrés merely ignored Sergio and got up, smoothing a hand down the front of his suit. Without saying another word, he turned to Paula and inclined his head toward the door. His message was clear: They were leaving. Now.

Paula quickly said her goodbyes, wiping at her eyes with the back of her sleeve, before trailing after Andrés like an obedient little dog.

At least she would be agreeable. Maybe not all was lost then.

They walked to the car in silence.

––

Andrés parked Paula in front of the TV while he prepared dinner.

He had put on a documentary on Rembrandt – suspenseful, yet not too melodramatic for a nine-year-old. It wouldn’t do any good to have a hyperactive child running around the house when it’d be bedtime soon.

He needn’t have worried about that. Paula was quiet, _subdued_.

Dinner was a strained affair.

They were seated in the dining room, the table decked with mashed sweet potatoes and smoked salmon, when Andrés decided that it was time to have _The Conversation_.

"If we are to cohabitate, I think it best we lay down some rules," he said, leaning back in his chair. "I have no desire to become a parent to you. I can be a friend, an ally or even a confidante. I can be a mentor. But that is all."

He paused for a beat, to let the words sink in.

"I hope you don’t expect me to put my life on hold for you. Neither will I baby-proof the house, so you will take care not to break anything. Some of the artworks in this house are worth more than any price I could fetch for you on the black market, and you’ll do well to remember it."

Paula blinked. Andrés took it to mean ‘yes, _Señor_ , I will be good and respect you’.

"Lastly," he continued, eyeing her frock with distaste, "if you are to associate with me, we’ll have to change a few things about your appearance. You look like Little Orphan Annie."

It seemed as good a place as any to start.

––

Despite his initial misgivings, Andrés was turning out to be a marvelous guardian.

He was such a shining, brilliant presence in Paula’s life; she hadn’t said so, but Andrés suspected that she was secretly glad to have come to live with him. Her eyes were _shining_ with gratitude and admiration, with full-fledged adoration, and Andrés couldn’t fault her for it one bit.

The first order of business had been to buy Paula a whole wardrobe of pretty dresses and cute blouses, chic skirts and woolen stockings. A cape and two coats made of vicuña with matching scarves and gloves, little moccasins and leather boots for autumn, loafers and ballerina flats for spring and summer.

He’d even bought a set of evening gowns for special occasions – velvet dresses trimmed with Venetian lace. If she ever accompanied him to a work function, she would look like a little angel.

Next was her bedroom.

Andrés had given up his spare bedroom for her. He’d looked through various catalogs and interior living magazines before settling on a rustic bed and matching closet in cream and ivory, and an artist friend of his had painted a mural of van Gogh’s _Almond Blossoms_ on the wall behind her bed.

He’d even put a mirror in her room so she wouldn’t feel lonely.

Not that there was much danger of that. Andrés had splurged on her. A lot.

He had bought her a whole farm of plush toys (cats and dogs and coneys. Her favorite was a shark with a velvet bow tied around its fin. She called it Señor Berlín), and her desk was stacked with paper and pieces of colored cardboard, pencils and wax crayons and watercolors – everything an ambitious young artist could wish for.

The shelves on the wall were filled with children’s books (the classics: _A Little Princess_ , _Oliver Twist_ , _Daddy Long Legs_ … It seemed literature had a lot to say about orphans).

Andrés had, of course, drawn the line at reading to Paula. He wouldn’t perch on the edge of her bed like a doting mother, petting her head and checking under the bed for monsters.

The mental image alone was enough to make him cringe. No. Just no.

But now that he thought about it… Maybe his personal assistant could put in a few extra hours. Ariadna had a lovely, lilting voice. And maybe she could teach Paula how to ride a bike, too.

Either way, one thing was certain:

As long as she lived with him, Paula would want for nothing. Andrés would be the best legal guardian slash involuntary godfather she could ever have wished for. He would be a beacon of light in her dreary life.

And so far, nothing had stood in his way.

Until the first day of school.

––

"You can’t park here, you obnoxious fucker!"

Andrés ignored the man as he pulled up in front of the school and put on the brakes. He twisted in his seat to look at Paula.

Before they'd left, Andrés had braided her hair into a ballerina bun. It matched the pale apricot of her dress, the frilled bows on her flats, the fur trimming on her coat. A prima ballerina.

She looked perfect.

"Do you have your lunch?"

Nodding, Paula held up her Elsa lunch box. It was filled with homemade avocado and cucumber maki with a side of crispy seaweed salad. Andrés had even placed a lemon cupcake with raspberry buttercream inside. As a treat.

He hummed approvingly.

"And what are you to do if someone treats you rudely?"

"Keep my thumb outside my fist, and aim for the throat," Paula recited with practiced ease.

Andrés’s lips twitched into a grin.

"Good girl. I’ll pick you up after school," he said. "Off you go."

"Bye, Tío Andrés," Paula said, pushing open the door and jumping out. Andrés watched her little pink backpack until it disappeared in the flurry of schoolchildren.

A sense of unease settled in his gut, unfamiliar and unwelcome.

Foreboding.

Had he left the stove on? Or maybe he had forgotten to lock the door? Why else would he be worried? Everything was fine. There was no reason to be worried. None at all.

Probably just heartburn then.

He jumped in his seat when someone slapped the hood of his car, and his eyes flew up to find the man from before standing in front of him. The rude, shout-y one. He was glaring at Andrés through the windshield, his features twisted into an ugly snarl.

"Are you illiterate or just fucking stupid?!" The man yelled, his arms flailing through the air as he gestured to the street sign on the lawn. "This lane is for Drop-off and Pick-up only. It’s a Kiss and Ride, for fuck’s sake, not a fucking ‘Drive your Car into the Flowerbed and Stare Besottedly after your Toddler’."

It took Andrés several moments to process the words. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had spoken to him like that. The stranger’s words were dripping with hostility, as sharp as razors. Like Andrés was scum stuck to the sole of his shoe.

And then there was the accent. Its lilt caught him off guard.

 _Argentinian_.

Ah. That would explain the lack of manners.

Andrés sneered at the stranger before reversing back onto the street (he barely graced the flowerbed in the process).

He wasn’t interested in picking fights with rude Argentinians. Although… Maybe he would call the principal’s office. Let them know that there was an insane man roaming the premises, cursing at passing cars. Judging by his clothes, he was clearly homeless too. Why else would he pair that shirt with corduroy pants?

Andrés was just about to drive off when the man let out a blood-curdling scream and collapsed onto the floor. Andrés slammed on the brake, shocked. _Petrified._

Within seconds, a throng of worried parents and teachers had gathered around them.

Through the cracked window, Andrés could hear the stranger’s pained groans. He could see him writhing in pain too, clutching his sides like he had been shot. Or well, hit by a car.

Andrés felt an inkling of guilt gnawing away at him. He had been annoyed, yes, but that didn’t mean he had wanted to run the poor sod over. In fact, Andrés could have sworn that he hadn’t...

His hand closed around the door handle, the knuckles white and shiny, when the man looked up.

Something flashed in the stranger’s eyes, crawled over his face. Smugness. _Triumph_. Then it was gone again, replaced by a grimace of pain. It reminded Andrés of an Argentinian soccer player keeling over at the first gust of wind.

It was all for show.

That _bastard_.

––

The bastard was called Martín Berrote, and Andrés had never before felt such raw and vile disgust at taking another man’s name into his mouth.

––

Andrés was nothing if not thorough.

He hadn’t come this far in life without knowing how to crush his enemies. The devil was in the detail.

So naturally, Andrés had done some research. Or as Paula’s homeroom teacher would say: He had done his homework.

He’d hired a private investigator to get him Berrote’s dirty laundry. Metaphorically speaking, of course. Andrés had no desire to sift through Berrote’s shabby discounter briefs.

What Andrés learnt was this:

Berrote was an only child. He was born in Buenos Aires and had immigrated to Madrid on a student visa when he was twenty. Berrote’s father had walked out on his family, and his mother had kicked Berrote out when he was a teenager (kudos to her for being able to stand Berrote’s guts for that long).

Berrote worked as an engineer for the European Space Agency, which led Andrés to believe that he had something on the dean of the University of Madrid. How else would that braindead clownfish of a man have graduated with honors?

Berrote lived in a small house across town. It wasn’t exactly a bad neighborhood, but Andrés would make sure to lock his car doors if he ever had the misfortune of having to go there.

Andrés had also gathered intel from some of the other parents.

And oh boy, had they got a lot to say about Berrote. Apparently, he stuck out like a sore thumb. The mothers thought him rude and brash (Andrés agreed wholeheartedly), and the fathers thought he was an arrogant bastard (once again, Andrés couldn’t agree more).

Berrote was also gay.

At least if Ágata was to be trusted. She was the only single mother who was immune to Andrés’s charms. Berrote had once dated her best friend, a huge Serb who reminded Andrés of the unicorn-wielding giant in Paula’s favorite movie. The amount of times he had had to watch _Tangled_ …

Andrés didn’t know how to use that information against Berrote. Oh, he wasn’t above flirting with men if it meant advancing his agenda. But the mere thought of batting his lashes at Berrote made him want to _gag_.

Which meant that he had to find another way in.

He needed to find the weakest link.

Now, some people may call going after a poor, defenseless child ‘despicable’ or ‘spineless’. Andrés would call these people ‘weak’ and ‘uninspired’. Cowards.

Andrés had no qualms about picking on a child – not if it hurt Berrote.

Berrote’s son was around Paula’s age. Cincinnati (Andrés pulled a face at the name) was the child of Berrote’s best friends (yeah, Andrés couldn’t believe that the bastard had friends either). They died in a car accident, leaving Berrote to pick up the pieces.

According to the student file Andrés had pilfered from the secretary’s office, Cincinnati was a shy boy, kind-hearted and artistically inclined. He was also lactose intolerant and took ballet lessons.

Which meant that Andrés had won.

Because Paula was clearly better.

And Andrés intended to keep it that way. He needed to assert dominance. To put Berrote back in his place.

Which is why Andrés threw Paula a birthday party that was bound to make her the most popular girl at her school. He hired a make-up artist who turned the children into butterfly-faced fairies and moustache-wearing pirates. He had even flown in a gaggle of doe-eyed princesses straight out of Disneyland Paris (and, like the wonderful guardian he was, he had waited until after the party to slip Ariel his number).

Paula had the time of her life, running around the garden in a princess gown, her cheeks flushed from laughing too hard.

She might not be his child by blood, but Andrés would make sure that she rose to greatness nonetheless. She would make him proud.

And she would be better than Berrote’s infernal brat, in every way.

Oh yes. Andrés would _destroy_ Martín Berrote.

––

Andrés scoffed.

"Have you ever seen something so dolorous?"

Paula looked up from the little stars and moons she was painting onto a sheet of transparent paper.

Andrés had taken the day off to join her for arts and crafts day at her school. Right now, they were building a lantern lamp – an exact replica of the one from _Tangled_. Andrés had pulled some strings to get the original designs from one of the executives at Disney.

Ah, to be such an amazing guardian.

Paula pursed her lips.

"I don’t know that word."

 _"Dolorous._ Something so sad and woeful it makes you want to gouge out your own eyes just so you’ll be spared the sight." His expression turned sour. "Like Cincinnati’s poor excuse of a father."

Across the room, Berrote fumbled helplessly with a pair of fabric scissors. Andrés was sure that he had spotted him gluing a piece of cardstock to the sleeve of his jacket at some point. It was pathetic.

"I like Cinci. He’s nice," Paula said with a shrug. "And he’s really good at maths."

Andrés scoffed, a half-hearted thing. In truth, he was barely paying attention to her. Watching Berrote was oddly like observing a trainwreck. Andrés couldn’t look away if he wanted to.

But when Berrote reached for the hot glue gun again, Andrés gave up. He couldn’t take it any longer. Someone had to help that poor bastard, and apparently that someone was going to be him. Oh, to have such a pure heart.

Smoothing down the front of his suit, Andrés strode over and snatched the gun from his hands.

Berrote protested. Vehemently.

"What do you think you’re doing, you little–"

"Ah ah," Andrés tutted, "no swearing in front of the children. We wouldn’t want to corrupt their young, impressionable minds now, would we?"

He offered Cincinnati a sickly-sweet smile.

"Go and fetch me some double-sided tape."

The boy took off, and Andrés turned the ‘lantern’ over in his hands to assess the damage. It was worse than he had thought. If Berrote built rockets like he built lantern lamps, the European Space Agency was doomed.

"You can count yourself lucky that I took pity on you, Berrote. This thing is a fire hazard."

Berrote scowled at him.

"I’m not sure I should take advice from a guy who shows up to arts and crafts day in a three-piece suit."

Andrés hummed, disinterested.

"Yes, I daresay you wouldn’t be able to tell a Merrion from a Westmancott," Andrés said, his voice dry. "But then again… I suppose chimpanzees can’t be expected to know about proper attire."

Berrote’s eyes flashed. It reminded Andrés of a tiger on the prowl, ready to attack. But before he could rip open his snout and devour him – much less say anything – Cincinnati returned with a roll of tape.

"Thank you," Andrés drawled. "Maybe there is hope for you yet."

Cincinnati beamed up at him, positively _preening_. Andrés sent Berrote a smug look over the boy’s head of unruly curls.

Berrote’s glower filled Andrés with a sense of warmth.

––

Unbelievable.

Never in his life had Andrés seen such a blatant display of arrogance. Berrote knew very well what he was doing. That he was showing off, strutting around the school like a peacock. It was right there in the smug glint in his eyes, in the way he lifted his chin, pleased with himself.

It was shameless.

 _Berrote_ was shameless.

He had shown up to the school’s career day in a suit. A _suit_. Mind you, he looked like he was on his way to a funeral – what with his black shirt and black tie, his hair slicked neatly back – but Andrés had to admit that he looked…decent.

Not handsome, no. But just tolerable enough that Andrés wouldn’t cross the street and shield his eyes if he saw Berrote out in town.

And it seemed that Andrés wasn’t the only one who’d noticed.

He glanced around the room. Some of the single mothers were seizing Berrote up, practically _leering_ at him. It was disgusting. Didn’t they know that Berrote was off limits? He was gay, after all.

Andrés gave an annoyed huff, ignoring the glare Ágata sent his way. Apparently she didn’t share his hatred for Berrote. Great.

Andrés wondered how she could be so blind. Couldn’t she see that it was a ploy, a deception? The truth was right there, written across Berrote’s face in bold, bright letters: Conceit was etched onto his features, along with ugly, nausea-inducing smugness.

Oh yes, Berrote was _basking_ in the attention. In stealing it away from Andrés. No one cared about an art consultant – not if they had an engineer who could tell them about the Moon landing and Mars missions. Next to Berrote, Andrés was about as interesting to the children as a tax return.

For once, Andrés wasn’t the center of attention.

He didn’t like it.

"I am an aerospace engineer," Berrote said, clapping his hands together. "Does anyone know what that means?"

That you are arrogant and insufferable and need to be put back in your place, Andrés thought.

"Are you an astronaut?" A wide-eyed boy in the first row asked, and Berrote’s grin brightened. He looked like the posterboy for a toothpaste ad. Disgusting.

"Almost. I design spaceships and aircrafts so astronauts can fly to space," he explained before adding in a stage-whisper: "I could never fly to space. I’m scared of heights."

The children snickered, and some of the single mothers cooed – women were so easily swayed by an admission of vulnerability, so weak and feeble-minded.

But the children were just as bad.

They were hanging on Berrote’s every word, _oh_ -ing and _ah_ -ing like mindless little drones. Like Berrote was the most fascinating thing they had ever seen, like he had hung the moon and painted the stars and was also a spandex-wearing superhero in his free time.

Andrés hated him. He hated him, hated him, hated him.

––

(When they were driving home that afternoon, Paula informed him that she wanted to be a space engineer for Halloween. Andrés nearly threw her out of the car.)

––

When he heard that Berrote was going to chaperone the next school trip, Andrés signed up as well. There was no way he was going to leave Paula in Berrote’s care. For all he knew, Berrote was an egocentric mastermind planning to rob the Bank of Spain.

And as it turned out, Andrés wasn’t so far off. Just swap the Bank of Spain for the _Museo Nacional de Ciencias Naturales_ , and the armed robbers for a gaggle of unruly ten-year-olds and that was about it.

It was a good thing Andrés had kept a close eye on Berrote throughout the trip, or else he wouldn’t have been around to uncover such abhorrent criminality – the _nerve_ of that man.

"We can’t let Fonollosa’s team win that scavenger hunt," Berrote’d said, his arms flying through the air. He was a complete madman. "I don’t give a rat’s ass if Paula’s your friend, we won’t only crush those kids, we will _humiliate_ them. And their team leader with it."

It wasn’t sportsmanlike, and so Andrés had done the dutiful, responsible thing.

He had ratted Berrote out.

It had been worth it just to see the indignation on Berrote’s face, fury painting his cheeks a dark red. The blazing eyes, the clenched fists.

It had been a beautiful sight.

Andrés’d had all of five seconds to enjoy his win before the teacher had turned on _him_.

Unfairly.

"It’s fucking laughable. The kids hear worse language on TV," Berrote muttered to himself, petulantly crossing his arms in front of his chest. And oh look, he was pouting too, mouth drawing into a wobbly line. He looked pathetic. "And don’t tell me that swearing is less acceptable than fucking cheating."

"I didn’t cheat."

Berrote barked out a laugh, the sound grating. It bounced off the walls of the bus – their makeshift prison. The teacher had put them in time-out, like they were juvenile delinquents. Troublemakers.

It was ludicrous.

"Oh, really?" He sat up, puffing out his chest and affecting a Castilian accent. "Here’s the answer sheet for the assignment. I came here yesterday and did the scavenger hunt myself. It will not tolerate failure, nor poor spelling."

He dropped the act, slumping back in his seat like a marionette freed from its strings. Andrés would be impressed by the accuracy of his imitation if he weren’t so annoyed.

"I pity Paula," Berrote said after a beat of strained silence. "What else do you teach her, hmm? How to pick locks and hijack cars? Does she wail on command so you can skip the queue at the grocery store?"

Berrote pursed his lips, pausing briefly before dealing the final blow.

"It’s just a matter of time until she ends up like her parents. The poor thing."

Andrés bit his tongue. He wouldn’t stoop to his level.

He _wouldn't_.

"Your mouth looks like a drive-through window for oral sex."

 _Whoops_.

––

Andrés tapped his fountain pen against his lips, lost in thought.

"I am not sure you’ll have time for scout camp this year," he mused out loud.

Teaching Paula how to fashion knives out of twigs and survive in the wilderness had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now he feared that her schedule might have become too demanding. Between her violin lessons, soccer practice, and scout meetings, Paula had barely any time left.

"You still have to study for your upcoming vocabulary quiz, and you haven’t learnt your part for the school play yet, no?"

"Pleeeease, Tío Andrés?"

Paula sent him a pleading look. The puppy eyes may have worked on his brother, but Andrés was made of sterner stuff. He was persistent, an immovable force in the face of such childish manipulation.

When Paula realized that he wouldn’t budge, she changed tactics.

"What if I get an A on the quiz?"

Andrés bit back on a smile.

"Yes, I believe that would be all right," he said, every bit the generous guardian.

With a large grin, Paula jumped up and raced to her room – presumably to cram five pages of German past participles before dinner.

Andrés leaned back in his chair and picked up his glass of wine.

Well. It seemed that he would have his first Paula-free weekend in almost a year.

Somehow the thought didn’t make him as happy as it probably should have.

––

Even the best laid plans of mice and men often went awry. Especially when one had legal guardianship over a ten-year-old.

At least that was how Andrés tried to explain how it had come to this. ‘This’ being a grown man standing in front of the two-meter wire-mesh fence separating him from Camp Goodtime, wondering why he hadn’t thought to bring a knife. Or a ladder.

There was nothing to it, Andrés realized with a sinking feeling in his gut.

He would have to climb it.

Wonderful.

Puffing out a strained sigh, Andrés rolled up the sleeves of his Armani coat. And then, clutching Paula’s plush toy under his arm, he climbed the fence.

––

Later, he would recount the story to Sergio as follows:

"When Paula texted me to ask if I could bring her Señor Berlín, I did what any good guardian would have done. I grabbed my coat and was out the door in an instant.

"Breaking into Camp Goodtime proved to be a challenge. That place is a fortress. Believe me when I say this prison has nothing on them – the fence surrounding the camp grounds is at least four meters high, stretching toward the sky like a wire-mesh giant.

"I work out a lot, so it was easy enough to climb it. The weather was atrocious, yes, but I didn’t lose my balance and tumble down into the mud. Now that I think about it, it was a stroll in the park. In another life, I would have made a marvelous cat burglar. A thief extraordinaire. Oh, I apologize. That was insensitive of me, no?"

––

After he had managed to climb the fence, he made his way through the forest, scowling whenever he stumbled over a piece of exposed root or sunk foot-deep into a puddle.

He hated nature. If he wanted to stomp through mud and animal excrements, he’d simply ask Berrote if he could take a look at his garden.

Andrés followed the sound of children’s laughter like some kind of forest-dwelling Pied Piper until it led him to a small clearing in the middle of the woods. The scouts had erected a small fire. Its sparks danced through the air before combusting with a small hiss.

It didn’t take him long to spot Paula among the children. Swaddled up in her red coat, she stood out against the dark shadows. A spot of color in a sea of gray.

Andrés was about to step out into the open when he noticed the boy sitting next to Paula.

It was Berrote’s brat. _Cincinnati_.

And he was _crying_.

Andrés felt a strange twinge in his chest. And ignored it. Cincinnati wasn’t his problem. He didn’t care.

Shaking his head to clear his head, Andrés stepped out of the bushes and into the flood of light spilling forth from the campfire.

Paula jumped up as soon as she noticed him.

"Did you bring it?"

"That depends. Did you bring your manners?"

Paula rolled her eyes, but Andrés could see the corners of her lips twitching upward.

"Hello, Tío Andrés, thank you for coming, Tío Andrés, it’s so nice to see you, Tío Andrés," she said dutifully. "Did you bring Señor Berlín?"

Instead of answering her, Andrés held up the plush shark. Paula _squealed_.

"Thank you!" She hugged the toy to her chest, grinning from ear-to-ear. "Señor Berlín always makes me feel less lonely."

She glanced over her shoulder at Cincinnati, and Andrés’s expression softened. He had no doubt just which one of them needed cheering up. Which meant… that Paula was comforting Cincinnati. She was trying to cheer him up. To make him feel less lonely.

 _I pity Paula_ , Berrote had said. _It’s just a matter of time until she ends up like her parents. The poor thing._

Andrés didn’t want Paula to end up in jail. He wanted her to be happy and carefree and _kind_.

She already was.

Hesitantly, he reached out and placed a hand on Paula’s shoulder.

"I am proud of you, Paula."

The words tasted strange on his lips, too big and lumpy. Still, they seemed to have been the right thing to say.

Andrés had barely enough time to spot the quiver in her chin before she darted forward to sling her arms around his middle, pressing her face into his jacket.

Paula was _hugging_ him.

Warmth spread through the pit of his stomach, strange and unknown. His hands flailed in the air. He didn’t quite know what to do with them. Eventually, he settled on patting Paula’s back – a bit helplessly – before pulling away.

"Go on." He gently nudged her shoulder. "I'll see you tomorrow."

She nodded and turned around to run back to her friend.

Andrés pretended not to see Paula wipe at her eyes. Just like he pretended that there wasn’t a big, fat lump stuck inside his throat.

––

On his way back to the car, Andrés felt lighter.

Everything seemed beautiful to him, so raw and picturesque. The owls’ screams had turned into a melody of the night, the moonlight bleeding through the treetops shimmered like liquid silver.

Ah, wasn’t life beautiful?

Nothing – absolutely _nothing_ – could ruin his mood.

Or so he thought.

When Andrés rounded the trail to the parking lot, he froze. Annoyance spilled in his gut. It simmered, _burnt_.

There, a few meters away from his Mercedes, stood a silver Nissan Micra, a sad old thing with a scratch along its side.

Andrés groaned to himself.

He could ignore it.

He _should_ ignore it.

He was cold and tired and dead on his feet. He just wanted to head home and drink a glass of Chateau Latife (or two. Definitely no more than three). Maybe he’d put on some music – Nina Simone or Peggy Lee – and draw himself a bath.

Yes. That sounded nothing short of heavenly.

And yet, his treacherous feet carried him toward the Nissan, where Andrés found himself tapping his knuckles against the driver seat window, once, twice, thrice.

Inside the car, Berrote jumped at the sudden noise, his body taut. Weirdly enough, he relaxed as soon as he recognized Andrés, the tension seeping out of his shoulders.

Huh.

Andrés clearly wasn’t trying hard enough if the sight of him in an empty parking lot in the dead of night didn’t spark fear in Berrote.

He took a step back as Berrote climbed out of the car.

In the moonlight, Berrote’s face looked gray and ashen, and his eyes were rimmed with red. It was obvious that he had been crying – which was absurd. Andrés was pretty sure that Berrote was incapable of feeling anything other than hot-red anger or arrogance.

"Fonollosa," Berrote said, nodding in acknowledgement. "Fancy seeing you here."

Andrés stuffed his hands in the pockets of his coat.

"What–" Berrote cut himself off and cleared his throat. "What are you doing here? Don’t tell me you were spying on a bunch of girl scouts, hmm? Who would have thought."

That despicable, foul-mouthed–

Andrés was about to shoot back with something cruel and scathing when he remembered how pitiful Berrote's kid had looked. Lost and homesick.

And then Andrés remembered how Paula had comforted him, and his irritation ebbed away.

He sighed.

"It’s the first time Paula is sleeping away from home," he said. _Home_. The word felt strange on his lips, and yet Andrés supposed it was the truth. His home was Paula’s home now, just like he had become her family. "It’s strange not having her around."

The transformation on Berrote’s face was immediate. Within the blink of an eye his whole demeanour had transformed, washing away any traces of hostility and replacing them with elation. Oh, the relief that came with being understood.

"Yes, absolutely!" Berrote said, nodding frantically. "Cinci has never been at a sleepover. It’s why I signed him up in the first place – so he’d become more independent. I just didn’t know that it would feel so…"

"Harrowing?" Andrés suggested helpfully. "Like the house is too quiet?"

_Like you are missing a part of your soul._

Berrote’s expression softened, his shoulders slumping.

"I worry too much," he admitted. There was a suspicious hitch in his breathing. "I am terrified that I’ll mess up. What if something happens to him? I don’t want to fail him."

It was pitch-black, but Andrés could swear that Berrote’s eyes were damp. He looked small and lost, standing there in his thin leather jacket, his hair tousled and wind-swept. The sight was pathetic – _Berrote_ was pathetic – and yet Andrés couldn’t find it in himself to mock him.

Something about the forlorn look on his face tugged at Andrés’s heartstrings. He should probably ignore it and return to his car.

He didn’t.

The thought of leaving Berrote behind, like this, felt wrong.

"It’s still early," Andrés said, sighing. "How about we get some dinner, hmm?"

––

"I’ve been taking care of Cinci since he was five," Berrote explained between bites of his lasagna. "I went to college with his parents. His father and I were best friends, roommates. When he asked me to be the Godfather of his child, I was _so_ happy. It felt like I belonged, like I was a part of their family."

The smile slipped off his face, and his eyes darkened. He looked haunted.

"You always think that it’s just a fancy title. You don’t believe that you’ll actually have to take responsibility, and–" He took a shaky breath. "I don’t want to fail Cinci. I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to him."

Andrés remembered what the PI had told him about Berrote. How his father had left when Berrote was barely five years old. How his mother had kicked him out, just ten years later. His family had turned its back on him, and judging from what little Andrés had seen of Berrote at school functions, he didn’t seem to make friends easily.

No friends. No family.

Berrote didn’t have anyone. Except for his son.

Andrés changed the topic.

"He isn’t yours then? And here I had hoped for the dirty details of a sordid affair."

Berrote snorted. Strangely, the sound didn’t vex Andrés half as much as it probably should.

"I’d rather cut off my own dick than fuck a woman." Berrote shuddered. "And no child that’s even one third of mine would be named after a city. I love that boy, but the name is... unfortunate."

"Oh, I don’t know. Some cities have a nice ring to them. Berlín for a boy. Florence or Vienna for a girl."

Berrote chuckled, but there was something bitter about his expression – something dark and self-depreciating.

"I don’t know why I’m even telling you any of this. You must think I’m a complete fuck-up. You have probably never messed up once with Paula."

"Why would you think that?"

"Come on," Berrote said, rolling his eyes. "Cinci told me about the things you pack for her lunch. The homemade sushi, the risotto, the tiramisu. Oh, and that fancy dessert you made for the bake sale? I ate half of it. And don’t get me started on Paula’s hairdos and the Chanel coats and Chelsea boots. She looks like a little _princesa_."

Berrote sighed, his face falling.

"You are like one of those hot blogger dads. Perfect."

That startled a bark of laughter out of Andrés, a warm glow filling him. So Berrote thought he was perfect, hmm?

Maybe Andrés had been wrong. About Berrote. He didn’t seem nearly as insufferable now, sitting there with a relaxed smile on his face as he told Andrés about that time he had lost Cincinnati at the _Museo Nacional de Ciencias Naturales_ – only to find him fast asleep in the skeletal ribcage of a Triceratops.

Yes. Berrote wasn’t so bad after all.

––

When he picked Paula up from camp the next day, Berrote’s words were ringing in his head. _I don’t want to fail him_ , he had said. Just like Andrés didn’t want to fail Paula.

And so he _tried_.

"Would you like me to read you a bedtime story tonight?"

Paula _beamed_ at him.

––

After picking up a copy of the required reading for Paula’s German class – Kästner’s _Till Eulenspiegel_ – he found himself wandering through the aisles of the bookstore. He still had another hour before he’d have to pick Paula up from school; he might as well make the most of it by perusing the new arrivals in _Art and Design_.

At least that had been the plan.

But instead of looking at the latest issue of _The Pastel Journal_ , he found himself leafing through a second edition of _The Conscious Parent_. He was halfway through chapter three – _Say it with a Simile_ – when he felt eyes on him.

Andrés looked up. His lips quirked into an amused smile.

"Impressive."

Berrote snapped his book shut, brows shooting up his forehead in an exaggerated display of surprise. Curiously, Andrés found it amusing. Charming, even.

"Fonollosa! What a coincidence," Berrote exclaimed, a bit too loudly. "What– What did you say was impressive?"

Andrés nodded toward the book in Berrote’s hand.

"I didn’t know you could read upside down. Tell me, is that skill required of all aerospace engineers?"

Berrote actually _blushed_.

" _Vale._ " He huffed out a flustered little laugh. "You caught me."

_Caught you doing what, hmm? Admiring the view?_

But instead of teasing Berrote further, Andrés decided to be kind. He let him off the hook – just this once.

"It occured to me that I may lack knowledge on a few topics," he admitted, indicating the books around them with a tilt of his head. _Playful Parenting_ , _The Spanish Way to Parenting_ , _Parenting 101_...There was a wealth of knowledge, and he had yet to dip his toe into.

"Like I said, I think you are doing a wonderful job with Paula. You don’t need any of these."

"Maybe not right now," Andrés allowed. "But what will I do once she gets older? What if she asks me about boys, hmm? What will I tell her then?"

Berrote chuckled. A low, soothing sound – melodious.

"Oh, that is easy. I find that men are delightfully straightforward. You can just look another man in the eye and tell him…" Berrote paused. His gaze had darkened, and he looked flushed. Almost _feverish_. "You tell him that you think he is very handsome and charming, and that you wouldn’t mind if he bent you over the nearest surface."

Andrés raised an eyebrow.

"Thank you," he said, looking back at the book in his hands. "But I don’t think I’ll be relaying that advice to Paula."

"No! Of course not! I didn’t mean–" Berrote spluttered, turning as red as a lobster. Andrés thought he heard him mutter something that sounded vaguely like _I’m such a fool_ under his breath. How peculiar.

Andrés shrugged it off. He had already known that Berrote was an odd one.

"I'm going to pay for these," Andrés announced, nodding toward a stack of books next to him. "And then I’m going to get an espresso at the café next door. Join me?"

Berrote’s smile lit up his whole face.

––

Andrés glanced up from his work.

Paula and Cinci (Andrés had finally warmed up to the nickname. At least it wasn’t such a mouthful) were happily munching on the platter of grapes and apple slices he had arranged for them. Between them lay a handful of drawings – sunflowers and daisies blooming forth from watercolors and crayons. The whole table was covered in their little art project.

One of his new books had suggested that children needed to spend time with their peers. Apparently they were like guinea pigs. Needy and companionable. And Andrés had to admit that out of all the children in Paula’s classes, Berrote’s kid seemed to be the most tolerable one.

The lesser evil.

Andrés checked his watch. A quarter to five. Berrote would be by soon to pick Cinci up—

The doorbell rang.

Figures.

He should have known that Berrote would be early. It had taken quite a bit of convincing for him to let Cinci out of his sight in the first place. Andrés considered it a sign of trust; apparently he wasn’t such a shoddy guardian after all, if he was entrusted with Cinci’s care.

When Andrés opened the door, he was greeted to the sight of Berrote examining one of the rocks from the flowerbed.

Andrés blinked. Once, twice.

"Were you just about to smash in the window?"

"You always take so long to get the door?"

They stared at each other in silence before Andrés’s lips tugged into a smile. He stepped aside, and motioned for Berrote to come inside.

"I’m a little early," Berrote explained, bouncing on the balls of his feet. So that was where Cinci had picked up that dreadful habit. "Any problems?"

His gaze kept nervously drifting over Andrés’s shoulder, as if he expected to find his son tarred and feathered and dangling from the ceiling like a child-sized piñata.

Andrés scoffed.

"Do you think me incapable of dealing with two children? Were you, perhaps, expecting to find me tied to a chair while they danced around me and called on the Pagan gods?"

"If Cinci starts praying to Pagan gods, I know who I’m gonna blame." He heard Berrote mutter under his breath. Rude.

Berrote pushed further into the living room. Andrés noted how the tension bled from his shoulders as soon as he saw his son, alive and well. And happy.

"Cinci!" The relief in Berrote’s voice should probably offend Andrés. "Are you alright?"

Cinci jumped up from the kitchen table and ran over to wrap his little arms around Berrote’s middle. Andrés winced when he saw the smears of paint he left on his leather jacket. Those would be hell to get out, and Andrés sure wasn’t going to foot the dry cleaning bill.

"Papi, you’re too early!" Cinci whined. "I haven’t finished my painting yet."

"You can finish it at home, _pequeño_."

Andrés clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

"I doubt your father has oils in Persian Green like the ones you used for your sunflowers there," Andrés said. "You can stay and finish the painting here. Martín and I will have a cup of coffee in the meantime."

Cinci’s face split into a grin as he hurried back to Paula and their fledgeling van Goghs.

Andrés’s chest swelled with pride when he caught the grateful look Paula sent his way. Oh yes, he was brilliant at this whole guardian thing.

He turned back at Martín, only to find him gaping at him.

"Hmm?"

Martín shook himself, as if to clear his head. Funny, Andrés thought that his cheeks looked a bit flushed. Almost like he was… embarrassed? No, that couldn’t be.

"I would love to stay for coffee." And then, in a small voice, Martín added: "Thank you, _Andrés_."

In the end, Martín and Cinci stayed for dinner.

––

After that, it was as though a switch had been flicked.

Andrés was a proud man, but even he could admit when he was wrong. And, as it turned out, he had been wrong about Martín. Because Martín was a delightful little thing, so clever and witty – and downright charming.

He had burrowed into his life, filling the empty spaces with his easy smiles, his playful banter, his heartfelt advice. Andrés was surprised to find that Martín had quickly become a confidante to him. A trusted ally in matters of parenting.

A friend.

Oh, he still called Ariadna for emergencies of a more… _feminine_ nature.

She had proven indispensable when Paula’s gym teacher suggested he buy her a training bra. There was no way Andrés would shop for lingerie with an eleven-year-old, and so he had simply handed Ariadna his credit card and told her to make sure Paula had everything she needed.

And then there was the time Paula had somehow managed to spill cranberry sauce on her jeans. Andrés had spent the whole night researching periods and ovaries and teenage pregnancies.

When the _What kind of tampon are you?_ –quiz he had found on some website called Buzzfeed had turned out to be more confusing than helpful, Andrés had given up and called Ariadna.

She’d dropped by for tea the very next day. As it turned out, Paula hadn’t become a woman yet. She was merely a messy eater. Crisis postponed.

Andrés couldn’t wish for a better personal assistant slash babysitter.

His calls to Martín, however, were different.

It started when Martín called to ask for the recipe of the casserole Andrés had served them for dinner the other day; Cinci had loved it, and would Andrés mind giving him some tips and pointers?

Andrés hadn’t minded, and so a new tradition was born.

Their phone calls became a part of Andrés’s daily routine, as natural as brushing his teeth or dropping Paula off at school. He would sit down with a glass of wine after Paula had gone to bed and reach for the phone, his mood lifting at the prospect of talking to Martín.

Sometimes Andrés got the impression that Martín called him up for the most mundane of reasons. To ask about the homework assignment for their children’s English class, and what did he think about the new homeroom teacher? Was Andrés going to be at the next parent-teacher conference? If so, maybe they could grab a beer after – if Andrés wanted, that is.

If he didn’t know any better, Andrés would say that Martín was looking for an excuse to call him. To talk to him. To hear his voice.

Not that it would surprise him. Andrés was a brilliant conversationalist. He couldn’t fault Martín for seeking him out. For wanting to bask in his attention.

Besides, it wasn’t like Andrés minded. It was nice talking with another adult.

It was nice talking with Martín.

––

Andrés flipped through the leaflet, the words barely registering.

He knew the exhibit by heart. After all, he had acquired most of the pieces for the gallery. _Chalk Cliffs on Rügen_ , _Moonrise Over the Sea_ , _On the Sailing Boat_. Andrés had outdone himself, and he couldn’t wait to show Paula. He was sure that she’d love Friedrich’s use of color and how it created an oppressing sense of spiritual uncertainty.

He had invited Martín and Cinci along, too. What was that saying again – the more the merrier? Surely, Paula would appreciate having someone her own age with whom to discuss the artworks.

And it was nice to have some company of his own. Having Martín close by was a welcome change from their phone calls. Why should Andrés limit their stimulating conversation to the unreliable static of a phone line if they could just do it in person? That way, Andrés got to see the emotions dance across Martín’s face, so open and animated. So _vibrant_.

Smiling to himself, Andrés folded up the leaflet and tucked it into his chest pocket.

Paula and Cinci were sprawled out on the floor in front of _Woman at the Window_ , their heads ducked over their sketch blocks and pencils. Andrés had challenged them to copy one of the paintings; they could sketch it now and color it in once they got home.

He would, of course, invite Martín and Cinci to stay for dinner. It was the friendly thing to do.

He turned to look at Martín, who was just returning from the coat check. Martín’s gaze was glued to the floor, his cheeks stained red.

Martín was _flustered_.

"Something happen?"

"No," Martín lied, looking anywhere but at Andrés. "Why would you think that?"

That wouldn’t do.

No, that wouldn’t do at all.

Andrés’s hand shot out to grab Martín’s chin, squeezing it between his fingers. Martín let out a surprised squeak, his whole body freezing. A rabbit entrapped in a hunter’s snare.

"W-What the fuck are you doing?"

"You’re blushing."

Martín squirmed, but didn’t try to pull away.

"You would too, if someone got all in your face like that," Martín barked out. "Can we go now? You promised us a tour, no?"

Andrés tightened his grip on Martín’s jaw, fingers digging into his flesh. A warning.

"Don’t make me ask again."

His voice was dark and gravely, more growl than question. Martín shivered.

"The attendant," he mumbled eventually, so quiet Andrés had to lean in to hear him. "She thought we were married."

Andrés blinked a couple of times, taken aback.

 _That_ was what had shaken Martín so?

An innocent mistake?

Andrés let Martín go and threw back his head, laughter spilling freely from his lips.

Something flashed in Martín’s eyes, just a flicker and it was gone again. Disappointment?

Hurt?

Dismissing the thought, Andrés slipped his hand into the crook of Martín’s arm and began leading him toward _Romanticism_. Martín tensed, the muscles in his arm taunt. It amused Andrés. _Relax_ , he wanted to say. _I’m not going to bite._

"Did I ever mention that I’ve been married? Five times." He was aiming for a jovial tone, but it sounded forced even to his own ears. "Do you know what five divorces are? Five times I believed in love."

"Right," Martín said with a roll of his eyes. "You sound so normal, I sometimes forget that you’re straight."

A surprised bark of laughter escaped Andrés.

"And what about you, Martín?"

"I’m gay."

"Are you? I hadn’t noticed," Andrés joked, good–naturedly. Feeling playful, he knocked Martín’s shoulder with his own, then immediately reached out to steady him, his hand pressed flat against his back for a quick moment before dropping away.

"Tell me, Martín. When was the last time you had some fun, hmm?"

Martín shook his head.

"I don’t have time for that. Between work and raising Cinci, I barely have a spare minute to myself."

"Maybe I could help you out."

Martín’s steps faltered, stopped. His gaze was dark and intent as he searched Andrés’s face.

"Are you offering—"

Andrés nodded.

"My personal assistant makes a wonderful babysitter. She could pick Cinci up from school and take him to the park. Give you enough time to go out and meet someone."

Andrés had never seen a person do such an impressive imitation of a deflating balloon. Martín’s shoulders slumped, his face falling. As if someone had presented him with a shiny jewel on a silver platter – only to snatch it away at the last second.

"Oh. Right," Martín said, his voice a careful monotone. "Yeah. Thank you. I’ll– yeah. I don’t think that’ll be necessary."

He extracted his arm from Andrés’s grip, practically flinching away from him, his expression carefully guarded.

"I think I heard Cinci call for me," he muttered under his breath, and then he was gone.

Andrés frowned.

What had gotten into Martín all of a sudden? What had that been about?

Martín’s sudden change in mood confused Andrés. In fact, it made him feel a lot of things. Emotions were warring inside him, as impenetrable as a Gordian knot. He was annoyed because Martín had spoilt what could have been a wonderful afternoon. He was disappointed because Martín had slipped away from him, leaving him feeling cold and lonely.

And he was relieved.

Because Martín hadn’t taken him up on his offer.

––

Sighing, Andrés added yet another book to the rapidly growing stack in front of him.

Apparently he was raising a bookworm.

He should probably be glad. He’d rather Paula read books than join a biker gang or do drugs. Or drop out of school to become a professional whale watcher. Or plan a bank heist in honor of her parents.

There were so many ways to mess up a child.

Speaking of messing up…

Andrés’s feet carried him toward the _Guides & Lifestyle_ section. Maybe, he reasoned, he’d find something that explained Martín’s odd behavior the other day.

On impulse, Andrés grabbed one of the books from the shelves – _Just Getting Bi_ – and began to leaf through it almost absent-mindedly.

There were a lot of pictures. Half-naked men sprawled out in a slew of sexual positions. Bend over a table. Lying on the backseat of a car, legs spread wide. Kneeling, open-mouthed and obscene.

It was outrageous.

This was practically pornography!

Not that Andrés found any of the pictures stimulating. Or arousing. In fact, Andrés thought they were quite boring. And stuffy.

Although…

A part of him was intrigued. Just a smidge. He had never given any thought to the logistics of gay sex. That one position, for instance, looked highly impractical. Andrés doubted it was even possibly to bend over like that. Although… Martín could probably do it. He looked flexible enough.

Which made Andrés wonder...

What type of man did Martín like? Big and strong or tall and lean? Would he want someone kind-hearted and meek, or closed-off yet passionate? Andrés could picture Martín with someone cultivated and refined. Someone _powerful_.

And what about sex? Would Martín want it slow and sweet, scented candles and soft music playing in the background? Or would he need it hard and fast? A bruising grip around his throat, nails digging into his skin. Teeth scraping against his neck as strong hands pushed him into the mattress.

Yes, Andrés decided. Martín needed someone who would hold him down and make him take it. Reduce him to a quivering, moaning mess. He seemed like a greedy little thing.

Andrés shook his head, trying to clear it. What a ridiculous thought! It was none of his business what Martín looked like in the throes of passion. What he sounded like. What he felt like.

He didn’t care.

When Andrés left the store, a copy of _Bi Any Other Name_ was safely tucked away at the bottom of his purchases.

––

"They grow up so fast."

Andrés smirked into his glass of mulled wine.

"You sound like a doting mother hen."

"It’s true though," Martín protested, but his heart wasn’t in it. He was too distracted to put any ire behind the words, his eyes never leaving their children.

Paula and Cinci were making good use of the first snow of the year by building a snowman. They had whined and moaned and argued – valiantly! – until they had been allowed to slip out the patio door and into the winter wonderland that was Martín’s garden.

The snowman was a sad little thing.

Martín had given up his scarf so it wouldn’t have to stand there, naked as the day it was born, and Andrés had been staring at the exposed curve of Martín’s throat ever since.

If Martín wasn’t careful, he’d end up catching a cold. His leather jacket was hardly enough to protect him against the harsh winter air, and his jeans were flimsy at best.

Andrés felt a shiver run down his spine simply from looking at him. The trail of goosebumps on the back of Martín’s neck, the reddened tips of his ears, the rosy flush on his cheeks – a love child born of the freezing cold and the mulled wine.

Martín’s hair was ruffled from the wind, and Andrés wondered what it’d feel like. It looked soft.

And it was, indeed, incredibly soft. Thin but silky underneath his fingertips, pleasant to the touch, and just the right length to—

He hadn’t realized that he’d reached out until he heard the sharp intake of breath coming from Martín.

Andrés dropped his hand as if he'd been burned.

He hadn’t meant to do it. Of course, he hadn’t. Who in their right mind ran a hand through their friend’s hair, on a whim?

Martín seemed just as shocked.

He was staring at Andrés with wide eyes, doing a perfect imitation of a deer in the headlights. The blush on his cheeks dark-red now, making him look like he was burning up from the inside.

There was that feverish look again.

It was unnerving.

Andrés swallowed thickly.

"My glass is empty," he said.

His voice came out huskier than he’d intended, and something flashed in Martín’s eyes, dark and greedy. It was gone just as quick, and Andrés watched as Martín got up and headed for the patio door.

For a moment, Martín had looked like he wanted to say something. Andrés was glad when he didn’t. He was _relieved_.

As soon as Martín disappeared inside, Andrés let out a shuddering breath.

What was that?

He had never lost control like that. His heart was _pounding_ , throwing itself against his ribcage as though it wanted to follow Martín inside.

He took a deep breath. Then another. Slow and steady wins the race.

He felt a prickling at the back of his neck.

When he looked up, Paula quickly turned away.

––

Andrés should have known that something was up. Paula had had that look on her face all evening now – the same one she'd had when she’d asked him if the tooth fairy was real.

Andrés braced himself.

"Tío Andrés? Have you ever been in love?"

Oh.

He hadn’t expected that. In fact, he’d been prepared for everything but that. _Tío Andrés, where do babies come from? Tío Andrés, what happens when we die? Tío Andrés, is free will real or just an illusion?_

He could have dealt with any of that, but this…

This was different.

Tricky.

Andrés didn’t know how to answer that question.

Slowly, he put down his fork, and reached for his wine. He took a sip.

He was stalling.

"Well," he said once he had swallowed. "You know I have been married."

"But you aren’t married now," Paula said, her tone matter-of-fact. Like she was talking to a slow-witted toddler. "Do you think you’ll get married again?"

"Maybe. But right now, the only woman I care about is you, Paula. You don’t have to worry about getting a step-mamá anytime soon."

"What about a step- _papá_?"

Andrés gaped at her.

He couldn’t have heard that right. A step- _papá_? Paula couldn’t honestly believe that he was… that he would ever consider…

It was absurd. Unthinkable.

 _Es imposible_.

Paula must have read his expression.

"Why not?" she asked, confused. "Martín would make an excellent step-papá."

His glass clattered to the floor. It thankfully didn’t shatter, but Andrés could already see the wine soaking into the carpet. He still made no move to pick it up, sitting frozen in his chair, staring at Paula. Shocked.

" _Martín_?" The name tasted bittersweet on his tongue. "Is this what this is about? You have befriended his son, and now you think we are going to be one happy family—"

"No!" Paula shouted, her eyes flashing with anger. She looked annoyed, like Andrés was being difficult on purpose. "I don’t understand. If he likes you, and you like him—"

"We are _friends_ , Paula."

"But he's in love with you!"

His world stopped. Tilted on its axis. And started spinning, madly, _violently_.

"What did you say?"

"Martín loves you," Paula said. A statement, a fact. The truth. "And you love him, too."

Andrés opened his mouth to argue, then shut it again. He shook his head.

"Why would you think that?"

Paula groaned.

"It’s so obvious! When Martín told you that he liked your shirt – the blue one with the stripes – you started wearing it almost every day. And when Martín came over after work to pick Cinci up, you smiled at him like he was beautiful – even though he was all sweaty and smelly from building spaceships. And when the sink was broken, you asked Martín to fix it instead of calling a plumber, like you were looking for an excuse to see him—"

"Enough!"

Paula stared at him wide wide eyes. It was the first time he had ever raised his voice at her. It was the first time he had ever needed to. But the things she had said – they were _wrong_. He couldn’t have let her go on.

He couldn’t.

Andrés took a calming breath and schooled his features.

"You are mistaken," he said. His tone was final. "Now go to your room."

He knew that he had fucked up when she stomped to her room and slammed the door shut. Its bang echoed in the silence.

––

That night, Andrés couldn’t sleep.

He stared up at the ceiling, watching the curtain's shadow dancing across the wall.

Maybe he’d been too gullible, letting Paula’s words trouble him that much. Adult emotions were too complex for children to understand. And love, Andrés reasoned, was the most complex of them all.

Martín was his _friend_. Loyal and witty and charming and clever. He was perfect for him. Perfect – in every way but that.

Besides, Martín had never given him any reason to suspect that his feelings were of a… more profound nature. That he was feeling anything other than genuine, innocent friendship for Andrés.

Which was good. _Things_ were good, between them.

They talked and laughed, and shared a glass of wine. Sometimes literally. They went out for brunch or dinner, they watched movies together, cooked together, went on walks together.

Andrés prepared lunch boxes for Cinci, and Martín helped Paula with her project for the science fair. When Martín had a presentation at work, Andrés offered to take the children to the museum so he could prepare in peace. When Paula got sick with the flu, Martín showed up with a bottle of children’s Aspirin and store-bought soup. Andrés had been so grateful, he could have kissed him.

They made a great team.

And there was no shame in making each other’s life easier. And more pleasant.

Martín had become indispensable to Andrés. He couldn’t imagine a life without their playful banter, without the warm smiles and lingering looks.

He couldn’t imagine a life without Martín.

Oh.

 _Oh_.

––

How the hell could he have missed that?

––

No seriously. How?

Andrés groaned and rubbed a hand over his face. How could he have been so blind? The signs had been there: the clammy hands, the pounding heart. The way he’d keep playing with his keys instead of getting into his car, just so he could talk to Martín for a little while longer. How he’d let his knees bump against Martín’s when they were having coffee, or how he’d lean into his personal space just so he’d catch a wift of his aftershave.

No matter how he looked at it, his heart refused to let go of this revelation. With every beat, it spoke the truth – he was in love with Martín.

And he didn’t know what to do about it.

––

"Is Paula okay?"

Andrés rolled his eyes.

Trust his _hermanito_ to jump to the worst possible conclusion. Couldn’t a man visit his brother in jail without a reason? Wasn’t Andrés being the epitome of the perfect brother, asking Sergio _how are you_ and _are they treating you right_ and _would you like me to smuggle you a file baked into a cake?_

"She’s at rehearsal," Andrés explained, noting how Sergio’s shoulders slumped in relief. "Her school is doing a production of _Coriolanus_."

Sergio blinked a couple of times.

"That’s– that’s quite advanced for ten-year-olds."

"They changed the text. There’s barely any gore left."

Sergio didn’t seem convinced, but nodded anyway.

"If you aren’t here because of Paula…"

Andrés heaved a sigh. It seemed they were done with small talk. Alright with him.

"You weren’t at my second wedding."

Sergio’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline.

"Is that why you are here? You want to discuss your marriages?"

"And what if I do?" Andrés asked. If he sounded like a spoilt child, it was only because he spent a lot of time around Paula. "We never addressed our falling-out. We didn’t speak for ten years, Sergio. Why couldn’t you have simply come to my wedding? Was it so much to ask of my only brother – the only family I have?"

The words hung in the air between them. It was both accusation and liberation at once. A weight falling off his shoulders.

They stared at each other, willing the other to give in.

To give _up_.

"Fine. _Fine,_ all right." Sergio shook his head, like he couldn’t believe they were having this conversation. "If you must know, I didn’t come to your second wedding because I’ve been to your first."

"And you thought that would be enough?"

"I thought," Sergio said, pointedly ignoring Andrés’s comment, "that if you didn’t love your first wife, you wouldn’t love your second either. Do you know why you have been divorced five times? It isn’t because you believed in love five times – it’s because you don’t know how to make someone stay. You think that you can bind them to you with a wedding band, but that’s not enough. You don’t understand–"

Sergio cut himself off, taking a moment to compose himself. When he continued, his tone was calm, devoid of the exasperation it had held just seconds before.

"Raquel’s mother has late-stage Alzheimer’s. We found a treatment. It was experimental but promising. And costly – way too much for a university professor and a retired _inspectora_."

Sergio took a stuttering breath. His eyes were damp with unshed tears.

"I risked _everything_ because I wanted to get that treatment. Because I would have done anything to see my wife smile again."

Andrés thought of Martín, smiling, shining, searing like a wildfire in his heart, and realized that he knew exactly how his brother felt.

––

That evening found Andrés sitting in the school’s auditorium, Martín by his side.

A small part of him had hoped that he could avoid him. But Martín had spotted him immediately – of course, he had. He was attuned to Andrés, orbiting around him like a star-struck moon.

He had weaved his way through the rows of chairs, greeting Andrés with a brilliant grin that had lit up his whole face. He’d barely glanced at the coat Andrés had so carefully draped across the seat next to him to dissuade overly-chatty single mothers from talking to him. Martín had picked it up, wordlessly, as if he had no doubt that Andrés had reserved the seat for _him_.

Andrés hadn’t said anything.

He’d merely watched as Martín carefully folded the coat and placed it on his own lap. Like it was obvious that he would hold onto it for Andrés.

Andrés glanced at Martín from the corner of his eye. He was completely focussed on the play, smiling fondly as he watched Cinci wave down from his spot in the lightning stand. It was sweet, how fondness transformed Martín’s whole being. How it made him seem younger and more relaxed, his features smooth and carefree.

He was _beautiful_.

How had Andrés never noticed before? The expressive eyes – a piercing blue that reminded Andrés of the ocean on a stormy day. The curve of his nose – slightly too large for his face. The shape of his lips – the cupid’s bow so pronounced that Andrés’s fingers were itching with the urge to draw it, to immortalize it with the tip of a brush.

It might have taken him some time to realize how much Martín meant to him, but he would make up for it now.

His heart was racing, a maddened gallop that left him feeling light-headed.

This was it. The point of no return.

There would be no going back, after this.

(Strangely, he found that he was all right with that.)

Bracing himself, Andrés flexed his hand and reached out to take Martín’s in his own.

He felt more than heard Martín’s sharp intake of breath.

Andrés pretended not to notice.

He sturdily kept his eyes on the play – even if his gaze was unfocussed, turned inward. But how was he supposed to process what Virgilia was saying when Martín had frozen beside him? His hand was limp and unmoving; Andrés might as well be holding a dead fish.

After what felt like an eternity, Martín’s fingers twitched beneath his. Then he slowly, _shyly_ , entwined their fingers.

Oh, that brave little thing.

Andrés’s heart _swelled_ inside his chest. He felt light-headed, giddy with relief. He had done it. He had crossed the line from friendship to something more, something vibrant. And it felt good. Natural. Like Martín’s hand was made to be held in his, their fingers nestled together, soft and warm and forever.

This was right.

This was _perfect_.

He was so lost in this moment that he didn’t even notice the play had ended until the lights went on and the whole room erupted into applause.

Reluctantly, Andrés freed his hand from Martín’s and started clapping.

Paula had done a wonderful job. She had stolen the show, really. Maybe Andrés would sign her up for acting classes. She seemed to have enjoyed herself. Good thing she hadn’t inherited Sergio’s awkwardness.

Eventually, the applause ebbed away as the parents got up, chatting away as they made their way toward the doors like a flock of sheep.

Slowly, Andrés turned to look at Martín.

His eyes were bright, practically _shining_ with hope. Andrés’s eyes flicked down to his lips. It would be easy to close the distance between them. To kiss him. Martín would welcome it, of that Andrés was sure.

He would just have to lean in and–

He couldn’t do it.

He wasn’t ready.

And so he bolted.

"I need to go and find Paula," he announced, turning away before Martín could say anything. It was the coward’s way out, but Andrés’s skin felt too hot, his mouth was too dry, and his heartbeat too irate. He couldn’t do this. Not yet.

He tried not to think about Martín as he made his way backstage, and yet he couldn’t seem to let go of the way Martín’s face had fallen in that split second before Andrés had left, his disappointment so palpable that Andrés had felt it like his own.

He found Paula in the props room, sitting on the floor between a record player and a fake plant the size of a small elephant. She was slipping on her boots, the corners of her lips turned downward.

They hadn’t spoken since their falling-out the night before. She had snuck out while Andrés was in the shower, apparently having chosen to walk the two blocks to school instead of letting him drop her off.

He had been relieved to see that she’d at least taken the lunch he had prepared for her. He’d made sure to put a bar of her favorite chocolate inside. A caramel-flavored olive branch. An apology.

He came to sit beside her on the floor, legs sprawled out in front of him. Motes of dust rose up around them, no doubt burrowing into his suit. He didn’t care. If he had learnt anything from raising a child, it was that you occasionally ended up with grime and dirt on your suit, no matter how careful you were.

Andrés cleared his throat.

"I should have known you’d be a starlet."

He aimed for a reconcillary tone, but since he had no idea what that sounded like, he wasn’t sure that he managed.

"Thank you, Tío Andrés."

Paula pointedly kept her eyes on her shoes. If Andrés had counted right, she was re-tying them for the third time now.

He wondered how Martín dealt with situations like this.

Andrés rubbed his hand. It was still tingling.

He took a deep breath, the air stuttering in his lungs. His throat felt weirdly tight, the words getting stuck on their way out. They were too big, too meaningful. Too hard to take back.

Still, he pushed on.

"I like red gummy bears."

He didn’t need to look at her to know that she was frowning.

"I’ve always liked red gummy bears," he went on. "I like them so much that I never considered trying any of the other colors. But now I found a green gummy bear that’s just as good as the red ones – better, even. And it has… made me unreasonable. I was worried what it would mean for me if I liked green gummy bears."

Andrés held his breath.

Paula was staring up at him with big eyes, her face unreadable. The seconds ticked by, stretching into eternity.

Then Paula nodded.

"I am glad you like green gummy bears now," she said. "And even if you only like this one green gummy bear, that’s fine too."

And just like that, the burden fell off his shoulders. He smiled, his chest filling with warmth. With _gratitude_.

Slowly, he reached out to pat Paula's head. Her whole face lit up.

"Just so we're clear," she said, her tone surprisingly mature for a child, "the green gummy bear is Martín, right?"

Andrés chuckled.

"Yes, Paula. But let’s not call him that to his face, hmm?"

They shared a smile – co-conspirators now – before Andrés got up and wiggled his fingers in Paula’s directions. With a large smile, she grabbed his hand and heaved herself off the floor. She didn’t let go afterward. Andrés didn’t either.

"What would you like for dinner, my little starlet? Vietnamese spring rolls? Gopchang? Tarte flambée?"

"Can I have fish fingers?"

"Your palate is pitiable." Andrés sighed in mock-disappointment. "But yes."

He didn’t realize that he had left his coat behind with Martín until they stepped outside and the cold hit Andrés right across the face.

––

Andrés was halfway through _Bi Any Other Name_ , when the doorbell rang.

He set down his book and went to get the door, briefly stopping to check his appearance in the hallway mirror. Somehow, he had a feeling he knew exactly whom he was going to find on the other side of the door.

He was right.

Martín stood on his doorstep, nervously shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"Hi," he said, flashing Andrés a million-watt smile. It was too bright. Fake. "You left in such a hurry the other night, and I- I thought you might need this back."

Andrés’s gaze dropped to the coat cradled in Martín’s hands. His fingers were digging into the wool, clutching it to him as though it was a lifeline. And in a way, Andrés supposed it was.

After all, it was Martín’s connection to Andrés.

An excuse to see him.

Andrés smiled.

"Thank you, Martín. How thoughtful of you."

He made sure to brush his fingers against Martín’s as he took the coat from him. It sent an electric shock down his arm, just like it had in the auditorium. A tingling sensation, new and thrilling.

Martín flinched, as if he’d been burned.

"Look," he said, pulling away. Closing off. "I don’t know what you’re playing at, but you need to figure out what you want."

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with meaning. With truth.

Andrés smiled.

"Why don’t you come in?"

He didn’t wait for a reply. Turning on his heels, he walked into the living room. After a few seconds of stunned silence, he heard the closing of the door, followed by hesitant footsteps.

Perfect.

Andrés smirked to himself. He felt like the big, bad wolf luring his prey into his den.

It was invigorating. Thrilling.

He felt _powerful_.

Somewhere behind him, Martín cleared his throat.

"So… the play was great, wasn’t it?"

Andrés bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. He couldn’t help it. Martín’s clumsy attempt to steer the conversation toward what happened between them was delightful. Even his impassioned speech had been vague at best. He purposefully hadn’t broached the topic outright. He was giving Andrés an out in case he had changed his mind.

He hadn’t.

Giving a non-committal hum, Andrés opened another door and gestured Martín inside. He could pinpoint the exact moment when Martín realized where they were. His mouth fell open, and his eyes widened in confusion – but there was something else, too.

Excitement.

 _Hope_.

"This is your bedroom," Martín said. Andrés could see his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed, hard. "What- Andrés, what are we doing in your bedroom?"

Andrés smirked.

"I didn’t think you'd need pointers, but I'll happily show you."

It was all the warning he gave Martín before he kissed him.

Andrés swallowed up his breathless little gasp, eagerly, _hungrily_ , and pushed Martín back until his knees hit the bed and he tumbled backward, his legs spreading to make room for Andrés.

When Andrés took him up on his invitation – when he draped his body over his, _against_ his – Martín let out a groan, low and needy, and Andrés leant in once more. He needed to kiss Martín, again and again, needed to taste each sigh, each mewl, each moan.

But Martín turned his head away.

"Andrés, are you- _ah_! Are you _sure_?"

"Didn't you just tell me to figure out what it is I want?"

"Yeah but…"

Andrés bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from smiling. He pulled away, just slightly, and looked at Martín.

 _Really_ looked at him.

Martín, flushed and breathless, sprawled underneath him… Open, offered, and still delightfully _unsure_.

Andrés’s expression softened.

"I already have," he whispered, the words nearly drowned out by the pounding of his heart. "Martín, I have figured it out. I know _exactly_ what I want."

And it was the truth. For the first time, Andrés knew exactly what he wanted.

And Martín let him take it.

––

Andrés had been right. About Martín.

He was loud and vocal. _Greedy_. He kept tearing at Andrés’s clothes like a wild little thing, pulling him closer and closer, as if he wanted to climb into him. Their mouths kept finding each other, each kiss scorching hot, _searing_.

Andrés was burning alive.

It was different. Making love to another man.

For one, Andrés didn’t hold back. There was no need to. Martín wasn’t fragile, he wouldn’t break under his touch. He could take it. He welcomed it, even. Welcomed Andrés’s roughness, his hard edges, his bite.

And then there was the way Martín moved beneath him, how he felt around him. So hot and tight, and generous. Martín gave himself over to Andrés, completely, meeting him with each touch, each kiss, each thrust. It was as though he had been made for Andrés.

Andrés couldn’t get enough of him.

He never wanted this moment to end.

––

Time moved ahead strangely, selfishly.

In their eagerness, it was over all too quickly, and they were left lying next to each other, flushed and spent, their chests heaving.

That had been _—_

Fierce. Profound. Enlightening.

Everything else paled in comparison.

Andrés rolled onto his side, resting his head on his propped-up hand as he let his eyes travel across Martín’s body. His skin was glistening with sweat, his expression carefully guarded as he stared at the ceiling. He seemed lost in thought, as if he needed another moment to process what had just happened between them.

As if he couldn’t believe it was real.

He was stuck inside his head, when Andrés wanted him here, with him.

Reaching out, Andrés brushed his fingertip along Martín’s left thigh, his hipbone, his stomach, watching in fascination as his touch left a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

Martín’s skin was perfectly smooth, not a single mark or blemish.

Andrés hummed disapprovingly.

"What?" Martín’s voice was tentative. "What’s wrong?"

"There is no scar."

Worry flickered across Martín’s face, putting a crease between his brows. Andrés wanted to trace it with his finger, smooth it away until there was nothing left but cheer and warmth.

Instead, he said:

"I hit you with my car, don’t you remember? I was inconsolable about it. I felt so guilty."

He could pinpoint the exact moment Martín realized that Andrés was teasing him. His lips stretched into a filthy grin, eyes twinkling.

 _There he is,_ Andrés thought. _The Martín he knew and—_

"Oh, you poor thing," Martín drawled, his tone sickly-sweet. A playful rumble that went straight to Andrés’s cock. "Do you want me to make up for it, hmm?"

Martín dragged him down for a lingering kiss and Andrés grinned against his mouth. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been this happy. He felt like he had swallowed a hummingbird, its wings flapping against his ribcage.

Why had they wasted so much time? They could have been doing this – doing _each other_ – for months now. It had taken them impossibly long to crash into each other, to finally become one.

Suddenly, something occurred to Andrés.

"Were you flirting with me?" He asked, pulling away. "At the bookstore?"

Martín groaned, burying his face in the pillow. His voice was muffled when he spoke.

"Yeah," he admitted, embarrassed. "I knew that I didn’t stand a chance. Not with someone like you, but I- I had to try. I just had to have you."

Andrés smirked.

"You wanted me even then?"

"I wanted you from the moment I first saw you. You’re fucking _hot_ , Andrés."

"Our first meeting?" Andrés asked, surprised. Their first meeting hadn’t exactly gone over well.

Martín extracted his face from the pillow. His cheeks were deliciously flushed, and his eyes sparkled with fondness. Andrés wanted to kiss him.

"You were a fucking bastard," Martín said, smiling, "but if you had told me to get in your car, I would have gladly treated you to a different kind of Kiss and Ride."

Martín made a show of leering at him, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively, and Andrés couldn’t help but laugh. But oh, his Martín was charming. Such a delightful little thing.

Slowly, he reached out to brush the hair from Martín’s brow.

"Will you stay?"

Martín’s smile brightened.

"Well, we still have two more hours until the kids come back from the park. Better make the most of it."

“No,” Andrés said. “That’s not what I meant.”

He looked into Martín’s eyes until understanding washed over his flushed face and his grin faded, replaced by an expression of shock.

“Will I stay- not just for today?”

This time it was Andrés who dove in to kiss him. Not because he was embarrassed to ask, but because his lips on Martín’s were as good an answer as any.

Of course, he wanted him.

And he never wanted to let him go.

––

There were dozens of pictures.

True-to-life sketches Andrés had done of Paula. Playing with her dolls, doing her homework, practicing the violin.

Photographs were scattered in-between, little snapshots from her life. There was one of Paula all dressed up for Halloween, wearing a space suit – complete with chunky boots and a large helmet. Another showed her riding her bike around the park, her hair flying in the breeze, or sitting at the kitchen table with a man, their heads bowed over a miniature model of Sputnik 2.

But one picture stood out among the rest.

It was a drawing Paula had done, the colors bright and hopeful.

It showed her standing next to a boy her age with a headful of blond curls. They were smiling from ear-to-ear at the two figures next to them – one was clearly Andrés, and the other had blue eyes and dark brown hair. Two more people stood in the background: a man with glasses and a woman with long hair and a police badge stuck to her chest.

Sergio’s eyes were wet and shiny as he traced the letters scrawled in one of the corners.

 _Five more years_.

"The guards tell me you have been a model inmate," Andrés said, leaning back in his chair. "Maybe they’ll chafe a few more years off your sentence. For good behavior. Who knows, hmm? You could be out in time for her thirteenth birthday."

Sergio’s lips twitched into a reluctant smile. He reached up to push his glasses back up his nose. It was a nervous habit, which meant that his poor hermanito was flustered. How adorable.

"Yeah," Sergio agreed with a shrug. "Maybe."

He cleared his throat and nodded toward the drawing.

"Things are going well with Martín?"

Andrés lit up from the inside. Just hearing his name made his whole world seem brighter.

"Martín is _perfect_ ," he said, the words overflowing with love and affection. "We've been looking at houses. We need a three-bedroom. Four, if we want a guest room. And a large garden. For the children."

Sergio smiled, but his eyes had darkened with weariness.

"Are you going to marry him?"

Andrés shook his head.

"No," he said, smiling. "This one, I intend to keep forever."

––

When Andrés was a child, he wanted to be a thief.

While the other children played house, Andrés played cops and robbers. He fashioned sabers out of twigs and branches, and bullied the other boys into re-enacting a bank robbery. The girls, he argued, could play the frightened hostages.

Oh, how he'd relished in the thrill of it all. The chase, the excitement, the flutter of nerves.

But to misquote the great J.M. Barrie: All children must grow up. And so Andrés had, with a heavy heart, abandoned his criminal aspirations and pursued a lawful career.

As Andrés leaned against the doorway and watched Martín and the children make a mess of their kitchen – flour-streaked cheeks and cocoa-stained fingers, their faces split into smiles – Andrés knew that he had made the right choice.

He would never regret it.

**Author's Note:**

> So that's what I spent the first month of 2021 working on. I hope you enjoyed it, and that I was able to make you smile, just a little. 
> 
> I've also got an epilogue planned, so stay tuned for that!


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